by Ray Rigby
Roberts reached the top of the hill, staggered a few paces and then fell on his knees as he repeated his thoughts out aloud.
“Too soon, too soon since my last run. I’m knackered. Too soon. Williams knows — knows all the tricks ... can’t keep running on this hill.”
He glanced up as Bokumbo and McGrath, still running neck and neck, still strong, passed him. He watched them run along the crown of the hill and lost sight of them as they ran down it.
“You’re next,” he said aloud. “You won’t beat it. You’re next.”
He turned his head and watched a prisoner climbing the hill carrying a bucket of water and walking towards him. He pushed himself upright and bunched his fists and glared at the prisoner and shouted, “If you try that, I’ll bloody kill you.”
The prisoner hesitated as Roberts jerked the bucket out of his hand and plunged his head into it and took a long cool drink, emptied the rest of the water over his head and threw the bucket away, and shaking the water out of his eyes he walked down the hill.
“Double,” yelled Williams. “Keep moving.”
Roberts marched towards Williams and halted a few feet away from him, then put two fingers in the air and whistled and walked back to the hill and climbed it and walked along the crown.
McGrath and Bokumbo passed him still running neck and neck.
“This — hill — won’t — beat — me,” gasped Bokumbo.
“Up — the — hill,” snarled McGrath as they both ran down it again.
Williams strolled over to Bartlett and stood with a grin on his face looking down at him.
“On your feet.”
Bartlett stubbornly shook his head.
“I said up.” Williams dug the toe of his boot into Bartlett’s ribs, but again he stubbornly shook his head.
As Williams was about to jerk Bartlett to his feet he noticed Roberts seated on the hill. He dropped Bartlett and shouted at Roberts. “On your feet, Roberts, keep doubling.”
Roberts lay back and shielded the sun from his eyes with his arm. Williams nodded to one of the prisoners and he climbed the hill with a bucket of water. Roberts heard the bucket creak and sat up, and when the prisoner halted a few yards away from him he picked up a large rock and standing up he held it above his head. The prisoner stared at Roberts then lowered the bucket.
“Chuck the bucket at him,” shouted Williams.
The prisoner looked at Roberts holding the rock above his head. “Staff, he’ll brain me,” he yelled back.
“That’s an order,” shouted Williams.
“Staff, he’s bonkers,” shouted the prisoner, and as Roberts held the rock higher in the air he ran down the hill.
The rock fell out of Roberts’s hand and just missed crushing his foot. He moved to the bucket and, swaying slightly, he knelt down and plunged his head into it and had another drink, still speaking his thought out aloud. “Don’t drink too much, not too much.” But his body was greedy for water and he had to pull his mouth away from the cool water. Then he emptied the bucket over his head and threw it in the direction of Williams and walked down the hill.
“Right. You take the hill,” shouted Williams and the prisoner who had been afraid to throw water over Roberts ran up the hill and tagged on behind Bokumbo and McGrath.
Roberts walked back up the hill, moving at a steady pace, his arms hanging at his sides, his legs jerky but still obeying him. A dazed expression in his eyes.
“Double,” shouted Williams after him. “Do you hear me, Roberts. Double.”
Roberts wandered down the hill then turned and made another trip and walked up to Williams and stopped in front of him. As though through a mist Williams’s face swayed in front of him.
“Obeying orders,” he said thickly. “Won’t beat me. You or the hill. Won’t beat me.”
Then he turned and marched back up the hill and Williams watched him and smiled.
Bokumbo and McGrath jog-trotted down the hill and ran towards Williams. A few yards away from him McGrath about-turned and ran up the hill again but Bokumbo ran straight at him and Williams crouched and bunched his fists and stood ready. Bokumbo laughed and changed direction and circled Williams twice and Williams turned with him keeping him in sight then, still laughing, Bokumbo ran up the hill and on top of the hill, marking time, was McGrath waiting for him and when Bokumbo caught up with him they both ran neck and neck together along the top of the hill and down it.
“Williams ... bastard,” grunted Bokumbo.
“Aye ... bastard ... see — him — drop.”
“Not me,” snarled Bokumbo.
“I’ll — no — ‘bloody — drop.”
“See — you — drop.”
“You’re ... joking ... darkie.”
“You’re ... joking ... Jock. See you ... drop.”
“Mack ... that’s — my — title.”
“Jacko — that’s — my — title.”
Running up and down the hill neck and neck, with Roberts walking dazed behind them and the frightened prisoner who didn’t want to be brained with a rock slowing down to a walking pace.
“See — you — drop — darkie,” snarled McGrath.
“Jacko — that’s — my — title.”
Spitting out the words as they gasped for air, boots pounding hard into the soft sand, wringing wet with sweat, muscles aching as they forced themselves on.
“O.K ... Jacko ... see ... you ... drop.”
“O.K ... Mack ... Carry ... you ... Mack ... Carry ... you ... back ... to ... your ... cell ... Mack.”
“Carry ... you ... back, Jacko.”
“Nurse — you — Mack — Fix — your — titty-bottle ... Mack — O.K. — Mack ... I’ll — carry — you ... ”
“Carry me! — you — carry — me ... darkie?”
“Carry ... you ... any time — Jock. Carry — you — any place.”
“You — carry — me — Jacko?”
“Mack — I’ll carry you.”
McGrath tried to laugh but he couldn’t. They ran towards Williams and a few feet away from him Bokumbo marked time. McGrath hesitated for a moment then marked time with him.
“Permission, Staff,” snarled Bokumbo. “Permission to run over hill with white man.” Then he let out a great peal of laughter and ran at the hill and on the hill and over the hill with McGrath sticking close to him.
Roberts wandered over the hill looking dazed and weary and still speaking his thought out loud. “Crazy. It’s crazy — crazy.” He plodded on and turned and plodded up the hill again. “Crazy — crazy — crazy.”
Harris was watching the prisoners on the hill again. Staff Burton stopped and turned to Harris.
“Did you speak to the R.S.M., Staff?”
“They must be crazy,” said Harris, still looking at the hill.
“Did you speak to him?”
“I told him you’re green,” said Harris as he watched Bokumbo and McGrath turn and run up the hill again. “Ever seen black and white Siamese twins before?”
“I want to get out, Harris.”
“They’re all crazy,” said Harris, still watching the prisoners on the hill.
“I want to get up front,” said Burton. “That’s where the men are.”
“You are green.”
“Only line dodgers and excused action screws inside here,” said Burton as he turned his back on the hill.
“You can find men anywhere. Anywhere.” Harris glared at Burton and walked away.
*
Three lonely figures moved like ghosts on the hill and walked round the prisoner who had passed out on the crown of the hill. McGrath and Bokumbo still stuck close together but they didn’t waste their breath talking any more. They moved up and down the hill as if in a trance, and Roberts still plodded on with staring eyes and a puzzled expression on his face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Evening and the sun dropped low in the sky in a blaze of brilliant colours that soon softened to a misty red, then orange, blue, then to a
deep purple then suddenly it was black night.
The windows in the Sergeants’ Mess were wide open but the room was still humid and smoky.
R.S.M. Wilson sat at a table staring at Williams, then he picked up a glass of whisky and drank it straight down and replaced the empty glass on the table. Williams picked up his glass and replaced it empty on the table and stared impassively at the R.S.M.
“Warm,” said the R.S.M. looking at the empty glass. He picked up his swagger cane and beat it six times on the table. The mess waiter hurried over with six clean glasses and a bottle of whisky and he half filled the glasses and cleared away the used ones, then hurried away again. The R.S.M. picked up a glass and emptied it and replaced it on the table and Williams did the same. The R.S.M. smiled and sat up straight in his chair.
Harris sat at another table facing Burton. They were drinking whisky and swilling it down with beer chasers. Burton was drunk.
“My mob’s — Italy.” Burton looked dopey-eyed at his glass. “Volunteered for here. Cushy number.”
“I’ve been up front,” said Harris.
“Don’t tell me.” Burton moved his arm and knocked a glass off the table. “Wavell — with Wavell. Sidi Barani. Captured some Eyeties there. They didn’t fight.”
Harris nodded. “I was with Wavell.”
“Great days, Charlie, eh?” Burton slapped Harris hard on the back. “Benghazi, the first push, eh? Hey, what about Hell-fire Pass then? What about Tobruk and Derna then? All that green. The green hills then. Hits you, Derna. It’s green.”
“Slept with a wog bint in Derna, then worried for a fortnight,” said Harris.
“Taffy got it coming out of Derna. No — you didn’t know Taffy. He got it coming out of Derna. Poor old Taffy.”
Harris nodded. “This bint in Derna. Proud body. Blue marks though across her mouth and chin — know what? A bloody Aussie stamped on her face with his hobnail boots.”
Burton was hardly listening. He was back in Derna and seeing again the green hills and the small stunted oak trees. “Nice place, Derna. Harris.”
“No call to do that,” said Harris. “Stamping on her bloody face. She was a clean girl and a good ride.”
“Wanna get the hell out — out of here. Harris. My mob’s on the beaches.”
Harris refilled his beer glass and toasted Burton. “The R.S.M. thinks you’re useless.”
“Does he now?” Burton glared at Harris. “Bloody post me then. Bloody post me out of it. My mob’s on the beaches, mate.”
“On the beaches.” Harris spluttered into his glass and got beer up his nose and choked. “Holy Christ. On the beaches are they? What they doing on the beaches then, building bloody sand castles?”
“Fighting. What we doing here, Harris, eh? What the hell we doing?”
“‘Surviving,” laughed Harris. “Making sure we get home.”
“Yeah,” jeered Burton. ‘That’s us. Surviving. Get to be low ... lower than line dodgers. Get to be as low as the scum inside here. Bloody line dodgers.”
Harris laughed. “Get home, Burton. Get home to the wife and kids.”
A brooding look settled on Burton’s face as he played with his glass. “Some will. But not me. Mine’s settled. She’s with a Yank.”
Harris lowered his glass and looked at Burton. “Is she?”
Burton nodded “Settled. She’s got a Yankee black kid. Must look funny with my three.”
Harris gave an understanding nod of his head. “So that’s why you want the beaches, eh?”
Burton banged his glass on the table. “Sodding women. They don’t care what they do, do they?”
“The beaches, eh?” Harris looked steadily at Burton. “So that’s it.”
Burton lost his temper. “Think I’m daft? I don’t want the bloody beaches or sudden death or a medal. She ain’t worth it.”
Harris nodded and refilled his glass, then beckoned to the mess waiter and the waiter served two more pints of Stella beer. “Four mates, eh?”
A sentimental look crept into Burton’s eyes. “Yeah. Want me mates.”
Harris nodded. “Maybe I can fix it.”
Burton leaned forward. “You’ve got magic touch with R.S.M. Get me out of here or I’ll be in.” He pushed himself up straight, looked at the door and judged the distance, then moved towards it. As he passed the R.S.M.’s table he swayed and clutched at a chair, then looked dopey-eyed at the R.S.M. “Harris,” he said solemnly, “magic touch,” then he staggered away.
The R.S.M. smiled, then glanced across the room at Harris and whacked the seat of the chair next to him. Harris stood up and walked over and sat down.
“You drunk too?” enquired the R.S.M.
“Yes, sir.”
“Stand up, Charlie.”
Harris stood up.
“Bloody liar. You’re still on your feet.”
The R.S.M. whacked the chair with his stick again and Harris sat down and watched him pick up his glass and empty it then glance at Williams.
Williams picked up his glass and replaced it empty on the table.
“You don’t want Staff Burton, do you?” enquired Harris.
“Don’t want Burton?” The R.S.M. glanced at Harris. “You a mind reader, Charlie?”
“He wants a posting back to his regiment.”
“Why?”
“He misses his mates.”
The R.S.M. allowed himself a frosty smile and pondered over Harris’s remarks for a few moments. “Has his wife gone on the batter, Charlie?”
“Yes.”
The R.S.M. nodded. “Any kids?”
“Three of his own and a black stranger.”
“So he wants to get his own back on his missus, does he?”
“Maybe,” said Harris.
“She’s got all the aces, Charlie. Tell Burton giving his missus a widow’s pension won’t make her suffer.”
“He won’t listen.”
“Posting refused.”
“Then you’ll have him in here,” said Harris.
“In here?” The R.S.M. picked up his glass and emptied it and waited for Williams to empty his. “Breaking bread with the bloody prisoners. One of my Staff in here, Charlie. Are you going mad? The boys would kick him to death.” He jabbed at Harris with his stick. “Tell him if he wants a boxwood cross just to spite his whoring missus, he can’t have it and if that don’t please him and he’s sticking for a prison cell, tell him he can’t have one here.”
Harris nodded and stood up. “I’ll pass on the good news, sir. Permission to leave.”
“Have a drink first, Charlie.”
“Had my fill, sir. I’m seeing two of you and it’s brought me out in a cold sweat.”
The R.S.M. roared with laughter and playfully poked Harris in the stomach with his cane.
“Go to bed then, but don’t have any more nightmares.”
Harris laughed and walked away. The R.S.M. whacked the table with his cane then waved it over the empty glasses indicating that he wanted them refilled, then he stood up and marched away to his bedroom and dropped his drill jacket on the floor and slipped out of his vest and plunged his face into a bowl of water and splashed his body, then dried himself and put on a fresh vest and drill jacket and combed his hair and marched back into the mess.
*
Only Williams and the R.S.M. stayed on drinking until the early hours and the mess waiter, leaning on the bar half asleep, wished to God that they would pack it in and go to bed.
Williams’s eyelids drooped and the R.S.M. smiled as Williams suddenly jerked himself awake and glared about him, then looked towards the bar and said thickly “Nother.” He pushed himself upright and knocked his chair over with a crash. The mess waiter jumped and was immediately wide awake. As Williams moved towards the bar he staggered, lost balance and fell on his knees and stayed there a few moments, swaying, before he managed to push himself upright again and hold on to a chair.
The R.S.M. stood up, held on to the table for a moment, carefully
pushed back the chair and walked a pretty straight course towards the door. On the way he passed Williams but ignored him.
Williams glared after him then opened his mouth to call him back but could only make confused noises. He lunged away from the chair, determined to catch up with the R.S.M. but he moved too fast and staggered into a table and fell over it.
The R.S.M. stopped at the door and looked at Williams lying half over the table and he laughed as he opened the door and walked into the corridor. But his sense of balance suddenly went haywire and he staggered from one side of the wall to the other. But he recognized his room and after fumbling with the door-knob he managed to open the door and stagger in and slam it shut behind him. He made his way to the bed and carefully sat on it and placed his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his hands and sat deep in thought as he waited for the room to stop swaying. ‘Williams can drink,’ he thought. ‘He can drink. Hard man that one. First I’ve met in a long time who can stay with me. Bloody room.’ He spoke out aloud. “Keep bloody still, damn you.” But the room tilted and disobeyed his order. “Bloody room,” he repeated, then sank back into his thoughts. “Hard man, that one. Can shift his share. Fell arse over tip, though, didn’t he, eh?”
One elbow slipped and his head jerked forward and he fell on the floor. ‘Had a belly full,’ he thought. ‘Shifted some bloody wallop.’ He reached out for the bed and managed to get back on to it. He sat with his chin cupped in his hands again like an ancient monument that needs scaffolding to support it. The night’s boozing had put a good ten years on his face and his body looked slack instead of hard and fit. ‘Shoes off,’ he thought. ‘Let’s get some kip. Commandant’s Inspection tomorrow.’
He managed to remove his shoes and then made the mistake of trying to place them neatly by the side of the bed and leaning down he lost balance and fell on his face. He lay on the floor wondering if he had bruised his face. He felt no pain but supposed that it was highly probable that a bruise would show itself by the morning. ‘Flat on my bloody face on a stone floor,’ he reasoned. Something had to bloody give. On the third attempt he found his face with his hand, then looked at it. No blood. ‘Drunk, so I may be lucky. This won’t do,’ he thought, ‘lying here won’t bloody do.’ He got into a swaying kneeling position and managed to get out of his drill jacket and then fell over on his side.